


Good Dogs

by theunknownfate



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Dogs, Gen, Ghosts, kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:53:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunknownfate/pseuds/theunknownfate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the wm_secretsanta in 2010.  At midnight on Christmas Eve, animals can talk. Even animals no longer among the living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Dogs

It was midnight and he knew he was dreaming. He had limped to Dan’s house and collapsed on the couch to rest off the aches and the cold. He had obviously dozed off in the warmth because he knew very well that Dan didn’t have dogs. Especially not those dogs. 

They were big, and sharp-angled, all ears and teeth. They lurked around the corners of the room, taking shape in the shadows like images out of inkblots. He could hear their nails click on the floor and smell their wet, neglected fur. And, in a moment that jabbed him full of terrified needles before he remembered that he was dreaming, he could make out their soft, low voices.

“This is good,” one panted. Rorschach could hear its tail brush the armchair as it wagged. “Good and warm. Smells good. Good place for good men.”

“Shouldn’t be here then,“ the other growled. “Good men only want good dogs.”

“We’re good!” the first one protested. “Always guarded. Always obeyed.”

“Always?” the second asked, voice dropping dangerously. There was a uncertain fidget against the end of the couch, by Rorschach’s feet.

“Made mistakes sometimes,” the first admitted. “Barked when should’ve been quiet. Hungered when should’ve endured. Wanted to play when should’ve been guarding.”

“Master died because of mistakes.”

“Not our fault.”

“Should’ve been watching better. Shouldn’t have let him in.” 

“Was good. Is good. Good men do no harm.”

“Killed us.”

“Punished us. We did bad.”

“Told you. What do you think he punished us for?”

“I don’t know!” the voice rose to a frustrated whine and Rorschach felt his skin prickle again. He wanted to wake up now. The dog’s voice settled down again, more resigned. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll stay with him. And show him how good we are. Then he’ll forgive us.”

“Hasn’t yet.” The gruffer of the pair seemed to crumble, some despair breaking through.

“Someday,” said the first, with more confidence. Something brushed Rorschach’s hand, something warm and wet, and whiskery. He sat up with a gasp. The room was empty. Of course it was. He swallowed hard, ears straining for any sound. There wasn’t any, just the hum of the fridge and the soft click as the owl-shaped clock hit 1 am. The midnight hour of Christmas Eve was past. It was Christmas Day.


End file.
